


In Every Dream Home a Heartache

by Driverpicksthemooseic (Ratkinzluver33)



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Coda, Drabble and a Half, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, What-If, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 14:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20448875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratkinzluver33/pseuds/Driverpicksthemooseic
Summary: Maybe he just wants to wallow in his misery with someone who hasn't extended judgement even to the most disturbed, depraved individuals on the planet. Or maybe he wants a fucking beer and a place to sleep that doesn't remind him of crucifixion and court-mandated bureaucracy and disappointed stares.The point is, he's here. God help him, he's here, at the doorstep of the most infuriating, self-obsessed, socially-blundering genius in the FBI. Because his judgement is so shot that this seems half-way close to a good idea.(Post-S2 coda. Entirely based off of my own wishful thinking.)





	In Every Dream Home a Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, huh, was I supposed to be working on something? A bunch of WIPs, one started only a week or so ago? Priorities? Sorry, I don't know her. 
> 
> I finished S2 and couldn't stop thinking about it. Especially this dynamic, which has enchanted me since S1 in 2017. I mean, I study forensic psychology myself, so this whole show had me sold within the first few seconds. Plus, I relate to Holden on an uncomfortable level. It's like they based a character off me, except more manipulative. And also a bottom. ;P
> 
> Title from the song that plays to introduce the first episode of S2.
> 
> I wrote this in a burst at 1AM. No planning, just stream-of-consciousness. I hope you can enjoy, even though there was no method to my madness.

He doesn't know why he's here. Maybe because some part of him wants to be analysed and told he isn't completely at fault here, even though it feels damn well like he is. Maybe because he doesn't want to go to someone (Wendy) who will explain all the ways he's worn down his wife's (soon-to-be ex-wife's?) patience and what things he can do (if he can do any at all) to fix this. Maybe he just wants to wallow in his misery with someone who hasn't extended judgement even to the most disturbed, depraved individuals on the planet. Or maybe he wants a fucking beer and a place to sleep that doesn't remind him of crucifixion and court-mandated bureaucracy and disappointed stares.

The point is, he's here. God help him, he's here, at the doorstep of the most infuriating, self-obsessed, socially-blundering genius in the FBI. Because his judgement is so shot that this seems half-way close to a good idea.

Holden answers oddly quickly for an unexpected knock on his door at 11PM. Then again, what has he ever done that hasn't been strange as hell? "Bill?" he asks, blinking sleep out of wide eyes, like he can't even believe what he's seeing. Bill can't believe he's here, either, so that makes two of them.

"Nancy left," Bill says, by way of explanation. Holden's eyes narrow a little, a thousand little conclusions being drawn in his unfortunately brilliant mind, no doubt. "Packed up her things and moved out. She took Brian."

"I'm sorry," Holden says, carefully, examining Bill's every reaction. He's sure the unwavering focus is nice for serial killers who like their egos stroked, but for him it's just... unsettling. Like being seen through completely. He looks away, into Holden's apartment. "Do you want to come in?"

_What else am I here for? Standing around like a lunatic?_ he thinks. "Yeah," he says, instead. "Got anything to drink?"

"Something alcoholic, you mean," Holden says. It's not a question. "I have some beer. Nothing you can get that drunk on."

"I don't want to get drunk," Bill clarifies. He just doesn't want to fucking think about any of this anymore. What his son saw, or Wayne Williams, or Charles Manson, or clinically-lit prison cells, or the sight of his couch in the middle of an empty house. "Just something to take the edge off."

"Did she say why?" Holden moves fluidly over to the kitchen, almost too casual. He doesn't know how to talk about this, Bill realises. Normal human things, to normal human people.

"She wanted to move," he replies. "Get away from everything. I thought change would be too much for Brian right now, after..."

"After he witnessed the murder of a toddler?"

"Jesus Christ, Holden." Why is he here? Why the hell did he think this would be a good idea?

"Sorry," Holden amends. "So you disagreed on moving, and she left when it became clear you weren't going to change your mind. This wasn't your first disagreement, then. Things had been tense before, and this was her limit." He nods to himself, ever the fucking psychologist. "This is why you've been so agitated recently. Not only did your son witness a murder, your marriage hasn't been able to handle the strain."

"Very astute," Bill snaps.

"And it was Brian's idea to... arrange the body?" Holden continues, unaware of Bill's mounting anger. "Did he create the crucifix as a symbolic offering, or did he genuinely believe the victim could be brought back to life?"

"He's just a kid, Holden. He wasn't thinking symbolism, for fuck's sake, he was thinking like a child does. He heard about Jesus Christ's resurrection and assumed that's how things worked."

"He must've been confused when that didn't help. We can assume that's when the finality of the situation set in. And we can also assume he's coming to terms with finality as a concept, maybe for the first time."

"We can assume jackshit, Holden, because we are not talking about this," Bill hisses. "I did _not_ come here to talk about this."

"Okay," Holden says, just like that. "What did you come here to talk about?"

All the fight leaves him. "I don't know. Not my failing marriage, or my son's trauma." He sighs. "I just needed to be out of that damn house."

"Do you want to stay here for a few days?" Holden offers. "I'm fine with sleeping on the couch, and I have plenty of food."

And spend more hours trying to navigate his life without his every choice being picked apart like meat from the bone? It's not the most appealing idea. He also doesn't have much of an alternative. "I can take the couch," he says. "Thanks."

"Of course." Holden blinks up at him. He's holding out the beer Bill didn't notice him pulling from the fridge. He'd been too distracted by the invasive interrogation he was getting subjected to. Holden fucking Ford. The man hasn't got a goddamn ounce of tact in his body. "Feel free to stay as long as you want, if a few days isn't enough. I don't have many guests."

Too busy scaring them away, most likely. "No girlfriend?" Bill questions. He doesn't know why he just asked that. Jesus Christ, he's unbalanced today. He pops open his beer.

"Not since Debbie." Holden frowns. His lips are wet from the cheap drink, plush pink where he bites them in thought. "I'm married to my work, I guess. And most people don't like it when I talk about what I do over dinner."

"You don't say," Bill gripes. "Your fascination with the psychos who like to have sex with their victims’ decapitated heads isn't appetising for anyone but you, Holden."

"You work with me, too," Holden says snidely.

"Not for the same reasons. I don't go around flirting with murderers or letting them manhandle me."

Holden tilts his head. "You think I'm flirting with them?"

"Kemper sends you cards. He thinks you're his fucking bosom buddy. He _hugged_ you, for Christ's sake."

Holden shivers. Then, "Are you sure you're not just projecting?"

Bill remembers why he sometimes hates this man. "No, Holden, I'm not _projecting_ fantasies of manhandling you around prison cells."

This gets him a raised eyebrow. "You did show up to my apartment in the middle of the night, newly-single."

"I'm not one of your deviant minds to study, Holden."

He raises his hands. "Sorry. Bad joke." He soothes things with a smile, placating. "How's the beer?"

Bill grits his teeth. "Definitely not strong enough for this."

"Sorry I don't have anything stronger," Holden says. "I'm not technically supposed to mix alcohol and Valium."

"Jesus, you're more of a mess than I am, kid." He runs a hand through his hair. "A nutcase and a family man with no family. Wendy's the only well-adjusted person left in the whole BSU, God help her. Unless you count Greg, who's probably only stayed well-adjusted because of the information he managed to leak out with his guilty conscience."

"Compared to the people we interview, I'd consider us pretty well-adjusted."

"You really sure about that? It takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

"To an extent," Holden agrees. Bill side-eyes him. "A limited extent," he adds, all sheepish grins and doe eyes.

"Cute." He takes a long pull from his beer. "I should get to sleep. Need to stop thinking about this shit for a few hours before I lose my damn mind."

Holden rests a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Bill. You'll fix things with Nancy."

A good man would want to.

"I could be fixing things with her right now," Bill says. "But instead I'm here, talking to you." He grimaces. "'Showing up at your apartment in the middle of the night, newly-single,' huh?"

Something sharp glints in Holden's eyes. "Yes," he says. "I'm glad you felt you could confide in me."

"Don't look at me like that," he snaps. "Like I'm one of your pet projects."

"I want you to feel welcome here."

"I don't feel welcome when you're examining me like a crime scene, Holden."

Holden peers at him from beneath thick eyelashes. "How would you like me to examine you, then?"

"Jesus Christ," Bill chokes out. "What are you doing?"

"Projecting, probably." Holden laughs, bitter. "Maybe I have been flirting. Nancy was wrong to leave you." He takes another sip of his beer.

"That's what you've been doing, throwing yourself at those psychopaths like that? Trying to make me think about it? Make me jealous?"

"It's effective in getting them to open up," Holden protests. "You thinking about it is just a bonus."

"This better not be one of your experiments."

"It's not," Holden assures. He leans in close, almost nose-to-nose, eyes lidded. Bill's eyes drop to his mouth. "Consider it?"

"I am considering it," Bill says, low. The predatory look in Holden's eyes grows.

"That's all I'm asking." Holden steps back. "Have a good night, Bill," he says pleasantly, and slips into his room.

He leaves the door open.

_No,_ Bill thinks, knowing he'll follow. _I'm not a good man at all._


End file.
